


Le sang de coeur

by xerampelinae



Series: Par coeur [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, References to PTSD, Rule 63, grounding exercises, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerampelinae/pseuds/xerampelinae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to Coeur gros. Sgt. Barnes begins to recover herself, but recovery is not a constant forward movement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le sang de coeur

“Rogers,” you say, sliding down the headboard to take cover in the shadow of his bulk. He stays quietly, obstinately asleep, breath steady and easier than before. 

“Stevie,” you finally hiss, hand snaking out of his clasp to jostle his bicep. Finally he stirs, eyes blinking blearily open.

In the entrance of the apartment there is a racket going on, and you are abruptly aware that you don't have a quick exit save the one attached to the entrance--you're sure you could punch your way through the wall but you're not sure the Captain would agree to that option. 

For a moment, your eyes and his lock. Then the bedroom slams open with a call of “Steve?” before someone taps at the door and cracks it open.

“Hi Sam,” Steve calls out, turning away from you to sit up. For a moment the silent, instant trust of that chokes you and you lie there stunned in his shadow. “What’re you doing here?”

“Never heard back from you after we split up,” callsign Falcon says. “Popped by to check on you since Stark mentioned the bike was here. I've had GPS trackers less up my business than that guy. How are you, man?”

Steve shrugs, apparently comfortable conversing in his skivvies. He quietly taps out H O L D in Morse code against your arm. “Took a hit, nothing bad.”

Falcon raises his eyebrows. “It's seven in the morning. ‘Nothing bad’ kept you from your morning run? Steve, even when we were following your buddy in Europe I never saw you in your underwear before.”

“Sam,” Steve begins, and then callsign Falcon tries to enter the room but stumbles over your abandoned boots in the dark.

“What the hell, Rogers,” he says.

You think--oddly uncalculating--that your concealed position cannot be maintained. You tap Steve’s hand in warning; he turns his hand to hold yours. You let him and sit up. Falcon notices almost immediately, freezing where he's crouched.

“Cap, you want to walk towards me?”

“I'm fine, Sam.”

“You want to tell me what's going on here?” Falcon seems calm, except for the jitter of adrenaline response you can see in his carotid pulse.

“She got me home, Sam.”

-

It turns out that Captain America's childhood friend was known as a woman who’d managed to be swept up in the draft. Callsign Falcon is unsurprised by the shape of your body, undisguised by leather, kevlar, and BDUs.

You must've had a flatter chest even than you do now; the docs measured you fit for the combat theater when they called you up, you think, noticed nothing more than shoulders broad from enough dock work to feed two. You’d already cut your hair from stylish something to fit with your men's trousers and shirt. Steve was oh, so skinny beside you, thin as the edge of your bayonet. That was the first time he tried to volunteer, probably, but that fire he’d always had.

After, well, after Agent Carter, it hadn't been so necessary to conceal. It was more an open secret, at least with the crew Rogers had gathered. What an asshole, you think, a magnetic asshole.

Callsign Falcon is apprehensive about leaving you alone with Rogers, and you understand, but suddenly his presence is wrong and oppressive. You roll the arm they almost took in its socket, concentrate on the roll of the motion. You open your mouth to say--something--but only a glottal click emerges from you. You carefully blank your face, lick your mouth in unconscious preparation for the mouthguard, already quailing at the thought of the chair and the cold to follow.

“Bucky?” Rogers says, distantly. He is looking at you, face lit partially by the hallway. The door is ajar but empty. You cannot answer the Captain, he is too distant.

“Can you try to breathe with me?”

You manage to nod.

“In and out, nice and steady. Just focus on that. Count it out against my hand.”

The first breath is slow and shaky. One, you tap against Rogers’ palm. Two. Shaky still, but steadier. Three. Four. Five. Six. Your breaths almost match Rogers’. Seven. Eight. Nine. Synchronicity. Ten. You blink and Rogers is near again.

“Hi,” he says in an undertone that might be used in the dark on a couch and couch cushions or around the embers of a fire in a dark forest. “Do you know where you are?”

You hesitate before you tap your answer into his palm. S A F E. It's not a question.

“Yeah, Buck,” Rogers says. “Safe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Le sang de coeur - heart's blood (French)
> 
> While I try to depict things as accurately as possible, I am not a mental health professional. What I do have is a frankly extraordinary background in exercise science for someone who does not like exercise. Which is partially why I wrote this today instead of working on either of several essays (both due in several days). Be kind to yourself and don't take too heavy a workload when graduation is in less than a year.


End file.
